The Pavlovian Effect
by NoImNotObsessed
Summary: "What would you say the ethics are of a Pro Hero who can't even save herself?" Mikami Kokoro will never be the Hero she used to be after her injury, and she knows this all too well. Balancing rehab with her new job as a teacher is proving difficult - and one particularly gruff coworker isn't helping - but she may find companionship in surprising ways. Slow Burn.
1. Best Foot Forward

I listen to the automatic doors close behind me, and I stare into the twilight. Of course it's late by the time I get out. Nothing against that poor girl, but of course I had to ask a worker on her first day for help. I look down the streets, which are clearing of the evening bustle. I fumble with the weight of my bags - _can't carry them right_ \- and begin my hobble home.

My first day at my new job starts tomorrow, and I don't want to even think of running the risk of getting home late. It would set a terrible first impression showing up disheveled and exhausted. The phrase often repeated throughout my childhood came to mind, "Early to bed, early to rise makes a person healthy, wealthy, and wise."

Every other step sends a burning sensation through my calf. I know I may too eager for results, but the examiners did say, if luck was still on my side, that the pain should subside as scar tissue continues to form. Bumpkus, I can't help but think. The metallic sound of my crutch is still something I'm adjusting to. The bandage is itchy. I had gotten slow since the accident. As a result, it seemed like life itself was taking its time getting places. While watching my feet and the tip of my crutch, I see the smiley-face pin on my chest grin back up at me. I sigh. I need to work on tricking myself that everything will go back to the way it was before, even if it takes a while. A long while.

 _Clack,_ step, _clack,_ step, _clack_. Being upset at how this cookie crumbled isn't going to help anybody. What's done is done. I compose myself quickly and continue my stoic march home.

March home, indeed. What should be an average trip taken by bike has now become an arduous trek on mostly one foot. With each step as slow and painful as it is, I am more than eager to get it over with quickly.

That's when I read the street sign and looked over my shoulder. I look down the adjacent road. This would spit me out close to my building, but this back road was relatively infamous for more than its fair share of generic hoodlum activity. The flickering street lamps and dumped trash only helped create the mood.

At this point, I want nothing more than some painkillers and to call it a day. The referral headache starting to pound at my head seconds that notion. It's not like I can't handle myself.

As the sun dips farther below the city's skyscrapers, the atmosphere shifts with the sky. My thoughts are drowned out by the sounds of silence. The past decade hasn't treated this side of Musutafu well; the night is when these streets come to life. My head feels foggier than I expected. I don't like thinking it, but for once in my life I feel vulnerable. I keep a wary watch as I pass each alleyway and each person on the street. There weren't many, but most pairs of eyes I meet only look away. The knack to look intimidating without trying much has come in handy over the years.

One set of eyes doesn't look away, though. This gangly man's aura changes in the instant he notices me. It doesn't take him long to size me up: a small, weak, and - frankly - nicely-dressed woman. Honestly, I can't blame him for seeing me as the easy and valuable target I look like.

His fingernails grow and sharpen into blades. "Your bag, now. I ain't gonna hurt you, I swear. I just need the cash."

His voice was unsteady, and he keeps repositioning his hand as if he doesn't know where to point it. His shirt is tucked over his nose so only his eyes (and navel) show. He seems inexperienced, but I can't trust him when he says things won't get violent. The look in his eye gives him away: he's scared but volatile. This situation can go one of two ways. I know which way this is shaping up to be. Even so, he lacks conviction.

"You don't want to do this," I tell him. "Turn around and go home."

His wide eyes dart between me and my purse before he lunges for it, spinning up both on our heels. With a death grip on my purse, I kept my eyes locked on my attacker. He's panicking, but he's getting frustrated the longer I hold on. He's weak but determined. We struggle in a back and forth dance of sorts. I lean to the side when my leg starts to give.

I suck in a harsh breath. I can't wrest my bag from him. Gosh, he shouldn't be this hard to ward off. He isn't even doing that much. Running out of options, I whack his knee with the crutch. If I can throw him off his balance, just enough to take him by surprise, I -

The man is suddenly yanked off me by what appears to be sentient strips of cloth. He thrashes as his knife-like fingernails shrink. "My Quirk!" he whimpered. "What happened to it?!"

I follow the cloths back to it's source to find a man. Presumably one of the many Pro Heros in the area, though this shadowy figure doesn't ring a bell. He blends so well into the scenery with his black jumpsuit and gravity-defying mane I was almost more surprised by him than the attack. He reins the mugger in with ease. The lanky man throws a fist, but the Hero quickly counters and lands one of his own. Sprawling onto the sidewalk, the wide-eyed man doesn't take long to realize he's outmatched. He gives up without much more of a fight.

As the Hero ties him to a nearby signpost, his hair falls into place, framing his yellow goggles. "Call the police; tell them there's another one."

He stands and he faces me. I can't see his eyes, but I can feel his gaze on my leg. I am suddenly hyper aware of my being and I can't decide whether to straighten my posture or to crumple inwards. "Miss, stay out of this area in the future. Wait for a police escort home for now."

I clench my jaw, but don't say a word. I feel small in my place as I'm stared down. Now would be a good time for some sort of retort, along the lines of a snappy "I had things handled", but it would be wasted at this point. With one last look, he seems to disappear as soon as he showed up. He leaves me alone to deal with the police.

Waiting on the officials takes longer than taking the scenic route home would have. Sorting out the issues with the villain and disappearing Hero takes even more time. By the time I'm allowed to leave, my head and leg can hardly take any more. As the officer lets me awkwardly clamor into his backseat for the short ride home, a terrible realization hits me:

If I need rescuing like some sort of damsel from that low stakes of a villain, then my career as a Pro Hero is on the brink of being over for good. I hope that doesn't interfere with my new job. But there are good chances this incident will stay outside of that circle.

* * *

The only sounds that reverberate from the pristine walls are my rhythmic, clanky steps. I curse myself; I'm late, I'm late, I'm late. I haven't had the opportunity to walk these halls since my… mishap, and I now have to consider the added time I need just for walking. I should consider myself lucky for getting a job like this - being able to help and train the best of the best. But something nags at me that opinions might have changed on account of my prognosis. I don't _need_ to be an active Pro Hero to be a teacher, do I? No, they'll understand. Accidents happen in the line of duty all the time. I huff. I'm overthinking things, I'm sure.

I stop just shy of the meeting room's closed door. I grip the handles on both my brace and the door as I give the knob a twist.

"Hello, newcomer!" A cheery voice greets me. U.A.'s very own Principal Nezu, my new boss, waves at me with a fluffy paw. "Come, sit. We are about to get started." He gestures to a cup near the last empty chair. "Help yourself to some tea."

I skim the faces of over ten people in the room. Other than the principal, I recognize about half of the Heros I see. Some I even recall working with in past attacks and catastrophes. As I maneuver myself into place next to a blond, skeletal-looking man, a deep stream of air exits my nostrils. Putting my unsightly support behind my chair, I look back at Nezu.

He stands in his chair, and with a smile he begins our first meeting. "Another break has come and gone, and the new school year is right around the corner. I am pleased to announce that we are bringing two new teachers on board this year." He gestures at me and the man next to me. We stand. Well, I mostly lean on the table. "Please welcome Mikami Kokoro and Toshinori Yagi. The Hero Dissonance and the number one Hero himself, All Might." He winks and holds a paw pad to his lips. "But that last part needs to stay quiet."

We bow our heads and seat ourselves once more. I steal a glance at the man next to me once more. He looks like he's on Death's doorstep, yet there is a glimmer in his sunken eyes that shows, just maybe, he is the Hero All Might. Chances are this is only news to me. I remember my contract had said something weird: if a Hero's identity were to be a secret to the public, that we must not share that information with anyone outside of staff. This is the only situation that could be referring to. Most Pro Heros today draw no separation between public and private life, myself included, but I can see that there would be an exception for someone like the number one Hero.

This school really is the best of the best.

Principal Nezu drones on about the school year ahead, and for the most part I'm attentive. I must look as deadpan as always, but I ensure that my eyes follow the mouse-like creature's every move, even after he crawls onto the table for a better view. Over time I begin to feel uncomfortable and I shift in my seat. Someone is not looking towards the front of the room. In between Nezu's points, my vision darts across the table on the hunt for any pair of wandering eyes.

My blue orbs lock with his gray ones. He peeks out between a thick gray scarf and shaggy, ebony locks. He stares me down, slumped in his seat, brow turned down. He does not look pleased. A pit forms in my stomach. I recognize him now.

He's the Hero from last night.

My expression doesn't falter. His doesn't, either, but he eventually turns his gaze back to Nezu. The most positive thought I can conjure is to wonder how such a sulky man got to such a position as this.

* * *

The rest of the briefing was uneventful. It doesn't take long after the meeting is adjourned for most of the room to clear. I gather the files I was handed towards the end and flip through them. They contain brief profiles on the other teachers and students, along with an approval form for the curriculum I submitted. I clip the top of my crutch to my upper arm and push myself to a stand.

"What kind of Hero…," a voice started. I moved my head in the direction of the sound. It was him. "What class do you teach?"

"General Studies. Ethics and Philosophy." I smile, trying to be amicable. "What about you?"

"What kind of Pro Hero makes such amateur decisions and can't resolve a minor altercation like last night?" His expression was the same grimace from before.

I am quiet as I process his question. My strict face falls back into place. Against better judgement, I speak up. "It was in the process of being resolved."

"That didn't look very resolved to me. The fact that you even got into a situation like that shows your poor judgement, to put it nicely."

I resent that. I don't say anything. He looks at me between hair strands.

"U. A. standards have lowered, it seems. The rationale behind hiring All Might I can understand, even if we have our differences, but you are beyond logic."

I don't have time for this. I turn to leave. He stops me one more time.

"What would you say the ethics are of a Pro Hero who can't even save herself?"

Take a deep breath. I might as well indulge him. "I want to thank you for interfering regardless." I walk through the door.

"It won't happen again, Mikami," he commands. He seems to say most things in an unamused mutter, but this sentence had an underlying edge to it. And it stings.

I clench my jaw. You don't have to tell me. I won't let it happen.


	2. A Rocky Start

I think my class is intimidated by me.

I sigh as I watch my first class of first years on their first day shove at each other to be the first to leave my classroom. Sure, it may be because the lunch bell rang, but the wary looks some students toss back at me tell me otherwise.

I pick up an eraser and clean my board behind me of the morning's scribbles. I must look angry to the teens, I rationalize. I used to get comments about my unusually large eyes when I was younger. I still get them to this day. Emotion is shown more clearly in the eyes than anywhere else in the face. Big expressive eyes without much to express just looks unsettling. I may have an empath Quirk, but that doesn't mean I have to constantly emote for other people.

I wince as I step back too far. In the corner sits my crutch. It seems like it's begging for attention with the way the lights glint off the metal surface. I don't know what I'm trying to prove by leaving it there. I hobble over to its resting place. Some of my last thoughts before going to bed last night were how I was going to make it the entire semester without using a walking aid during class. The inklings of regret for making late night vows crawl their way into mind, but in that moment I don't see the benefit to quitting. I'd just be weak.

I clip the crutch to my arm, sinking my weight into its support. My disposition seems more dour than usual. If I had to trace an origin point for this feeling, I would point to yesterday morning. I've been fighting off any sense of pity since I last spoke to the shadow man. Eraserhead, his profile read.

" _What would you say the ethics are of a Pro Hero who can't even save herself?"_

I bite my cheek at his quip. You can beat me until I am black and blue, but I never managed to grow thick skin. Over twenty-four hours later and I still have a sour taste in my mouth.

I need to center myself. Something hot in my hands would help.

I start my way towards the teacher's lounge. The lunch rush moved so fast that hardly a soul is left in sight. A short hike later and a sign above a doorway marks my destination. One teacher stands opposite the door, leaning against the windows and sipping something steaming. I guess everyone enjoys a bit of escapism now and then. He peeks over his sunglasses when he notices me coming.

Time for informal coworker introductions, then. These are always fun.

"Yo, Dissonance! What's up?" he greets. He flashes a toothy grin.

I drilled myself to learn as many names I could yesterday. I hope I've retained most of them. Cockatoo hair and headphones: Hizashi Yamada. "Hi, Present Mic."

"How's your first day treating ya?" He laughs. "Hope none of the kids are trying to bite your head off. Yet."

"Quite the opposite, really. They seem pretty turned off by me so far."

He points a finger at me. "With that attitude, I almost expect that reaction from the young listeners."

"What attitude?"

We stare at each other blankly for a minute. He dismisses it. "Well, not every kid will come bounding into a new school year with enthusiasm," he says, rolling his shoulders. "Being an entertainer makes it a bit easier, but most of them are disappointed to have such normal classes like English, even in General Studies."

"Maybe I am coming off as a bit harsh or stiff," I admit.

He winks. "Nervous?"

I look down at my legs peeking out from my skirt. "Just trying to adjust."

He pats my back. "Well, at least you seem like you'll turn out better than my man, Shouta." Pointing out the window behind him, he says, "Ol' Eraserhead never fails to make a good impression."

I follow his finger to the field below. There stands the black figure surrounded by a group of first years. His scarf and hair are flying, and he's bound a student in place. The boy is almost too far away to see, but he looks petrified. I inwardly shudder.

"He and his Quirk were made for each other," he says. "Seemingly harmless, but you don't want to be on the receiving end. What about you, Dissonance? Are Empath and you happily matched?"

I hum. "You read my file?"

Mic is starting to become overwhelmingly animated. "Yeah, man! I'm caught up on every one of my listeners!" He pointed at me with both hands, almost spilling his drink. "Heartfelt Hero: Dissonance! Her Quirk lets her make her opponent's emotions intense and larger than life! Be careful not to let her catch you in a bad mood - you could leave with a much worse one! She's mastered the art of reading the human psyche!" He's shouting at this point. " _How odd for a girl with a blank stare!"_

My nostrils flair… I'm on the fence whether or not to pay regard to that last statement. With that grin plastered on his face and the pure enthusiasm radiating off him, I'm sure he means well. "You've been doing your homework."

He's nearly vibrating at this point, a sense of pride washing over him. "It's one of my many talents." He calms down enough to take a swig from his cup. "It's important to know about the people that come here. That's what my take on it is."

I nod in agreement. I watch him as he downs the rest of whatever he was drinking and squeezes the flimsy cup. I remember my original objective. "Where did you get that?"

He raises a brow. "This? Oh, Nezu always makes sure to have tea stocked and prepared in the lounges," he tells me, gesturing to the room across from us.

I nod my head in thanks and begin to cross the hall. He tails me. I hear from behind me, "Yeah, feel free to stick around in here as long as you need to." As we enter, he throws the cup into a garbage bin. "Fair warning: the usual tenant may not be expecting any company." I cock my head.

"Let's just say Shouta isn't used to sharing."

I begin going through the motions of preparing my tea at the station next to the wall. I peek at him from the corner of my eye. He talks about him a lot. "It sounds like you and this Eraserhead character know each other quite well. What's your history? What's he like?"

Present Mic puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs. "We've known each other since our school days here. He's always was such a serious kid and he never grew outta that. It's funny how we ended up being friends; he can't stand attention and I can't get enough of it."

I squint, scanning his face. He's not saying something.

As he talks, I focus my emotional energy and slowly project it onto him. His demeanor starts to shift.

"... And sure he's tough on students, even if it's well deserved. Then again, it's not so well deserved at times." He moves to rub his arms, downcast. "He just has high standards is all. Even as kids. Especially back then, I used to wonder if he was judging me underneath that gaze. If he was disappointed with his loudmouth of a friend…." He trails off, too wrapped up in his own thoughts to continue.

So is that what he really thinks? His personality would not allow him to emotionally lie to himself. If he gets along with someone, it's because they get along. He looks scared, nervous almost. From how most other teachers seem to be around each other, he must not stand the thought of any of us not being friends, or at the least the thought of any drama between us. Mic is pretty perceptive, too. He must have seen the dirty looks exchanged between me and Eraserhead yesterday morning. He's worried we won't get along. At this point, he may be onto something.

I shouldn't be doing this to other teachers. My Quirk abates and Mic soon pops back to his normal, confident stance. He looks at me. I look at him. "I'm sorry," I mutter.

Mic brushes it off easily enough. "I get it. Trust me, he has a good heart. Everyone at U.A. does." He turns on his heel out the door. "Don't let him scare ya."

He smiles at me over his shoulder and closes the door to the teacher's lounge behind him. I am alone with my thoughts and my tea. Balancing the cup in one hand, I move over to the couch. It beckons me, and I nestle into its corner.

I hold the cup close to my chest, drawing all thoughts to the heat and letting the negative ones float away with the steam. It's too hot to drink, but that doesn't mean it's functionless. My stunt with Present Mic left me feeling drained.

The minutes tick by on the wall clock. With each round of the minute hand, I feel better. The smell has become too tempting, and I move to drink my little heating pack. As my lips touch the warm liquid, I am jarred by the sound of the door sliding open. I look up to acknowledge the newcomer, but as I do, my mouth goes dry.

The two of us gawk at each other, each in shock that the other is present.

"What are you doing in here?" he interrogates, his hand on the door as if he's contemplating to leave.

"Tea," I reply, drawing his tired eyes to the cup in my hand.

"You do realize you could have put up the 'in use' sign if you wanted privacy?"

I forgot about the sign. "I didn't want to."

I can see his brow darken under his mass of black hair. He gives a quiet snort before moving in and shutting the door behind him, sliding the aforementioned sign into place. Skulking across the room, he reaches behind the couch I am on. He doesn't make eye contact. He pulls out a yellow sleeping bag. It was almost artful how, in one fluid motion, he curled up in the sleeping bag and settled into the opposite corner of the couch. I found it humorous.

"Do you want me to leave, Eraserhead?" I ask, preemptively reaching for my crutch. He seems exhausted.

He heaves a sigh. "I suppose not. Just be quiet. Oh, and Mikami?" He pulls the sleeping bag's hood over his head, his hair sticking out in odd directions. "You can simply call me Aizawa for now," he muttered.

I nod.

I silently sip my drink as he curls up. It doesn't take long for his breathing to slow and regulate. I steal a glimpse as his face. Sure enough, his eyes are closed and his lips are ever so slightly slack. Sound asleep. This is the most relaxed I have seen him, and it almost seems out of character at this point.

We both remain motionless as time goes on. I dare not move too much in fear of walking him and giving him another reason to be in a bad mood. I finished my tea long ago. I stifle a yawn myself. It's tempting to take a quick snooze myself, but it's easy to decide against it.

I ease myself out of my seat, limping with crutch in hand out the door as quietly as I can. I don't want to accidentally overstep some unspoken professional boundary or rule. Best not do anything of the sort until I figure out the pecking order here.


	3. You Snore

I wake up to the sound of my phone nearly vibrating itself off my nightstand. I groggily grope for it with one hand as I sit up. I go to turn my alarm off, but my early morning brain is confused when I see that my alarm isn't set to ring for another ten minutes. I am confused, that is, until I see the string of notifications.

That's right, I remember. I let Present Mic add me to his group chat he made with all of the teachers. He is really, uh, persistent on us all being on friendly terms. I'm more and more awake with each of the phone's vibrations in my hand. Fine, let's see what they're up to.

I unlock the phone.

" _Good morning, everyone! Ready to start a new week?"_

" _noooo didn't the weekend just start?"_

" _You say that every Monday :P"_

" _and every monday i cant believe it"_

Hmm. So far it just seems to be a two-sided conversation between Present Mic and Midnight. All Might interjects every now and then, but it tends to only be shorthand. He's probably already busy at work as Number One Hero. I scroll around a bit. I notice Eraserhead hasn't contributed at all. Ever. Maybe that's a good thing; let these goofs have their fun. It would make Mic happy if I respond.

" _I'll be ready to tackle the new week after some Breakfast :D"_

I smile and try to hold back an eye roll at Mic's predictable reply.

" _PLUS ULTRAAAA!"_

* * *

Working here has definitely been what some might call "interesting".

General Studies is what most students seem to expect when they think of school. It's the shenanigans from the Hero Course that catch me off guard. U.A. was not my alma mater; in fact, I attended its primary rival school back in the day. Needless to say, I now see why U.A.'s rather unique teaching methods are a selling point.

The Hero Course students are almost always in the midst of a ruckus with their Hero training. I sometimes catch glimpses of a class doing excercises and ability assessments in the fields below. The first years, as a whole, are slowly adjusting to the new regimen. Seeing them stumble and hesitate brings a strange wave of nostalgia for my younger years.

However, with the Hero Course also comes an unforeseen complication.

I'm still adjusting to my new life here, and being surrounded by passionate people on a constant basis is emotionally exhausting. I need a break from my classroom from time to time so I don't become an empty husk both inside and out. But every time I think I found a quiet, secluded place to heal, he's already there and wrapped up in his signature yellow sleeping bag. I can't count the number of times I've tripped over him in the halls. And if I do find an unoccupied space, it's only a matter of time before he, Eraserhead, shows up.

I open the door to the lounge and, sure enough, there he is. He's already on his side of the couch. At first, we would barely make eye contact before one of us would move on to a new location, but somewhere along the line, we both gave up on trying to find our own spots. We're just too tired for that extra, and frankly trivial, effort. For now he seems to tolerate me, and therefore I shall do the same.

I go through my ritual of making my tea and sit on my side of the sofa, resting my crutch on the armrest beside me. Maneuvering has certainly become easier over the weeks. He doesn't stir as I settle in; he must already be asleep.

One deep breath in is all it takes. All of my muscles relax as if on cue, and if I didn't know better, I'd say I was melting into the cushions themselves.

As I sip away at my tea, I sneak a glance at the man beside me. Even though he looks displeased in general with the waking world, it seemed as though he brought a cloud of peace with him when he napped. It doesn't take long to finish my tea. I stifle a yawn. It's contagious, I continue thinking. I was up late last night, wasn't I? And I didn't have any afternoon classes until later. I'm sure I can close my eyes for just a little bit….

* * *

I feel shifting at the other end of the couch and my eyes flutter open. The groggy pressure in the front of my skull tells me I was asleep, though the clock on the wall told me I wasn't out for very long. I roll my head to my right to see Aizawa, groggy himself, drinking a travel packet of applesauce.

"Good morning," Aizawa said, side-eyeing me. He went back to his applesauce. "You snore."

I don't mean to, but I can feel a blush trickle onto my cheeks. "I… I'm sorry." Darn it.

He hums, his voice gruff. "Hmm, no matter. I was going to wake up soon anyway."

We sit in silence for a moment. He doesn't seem to think much of it. It's hard to say if he still distastes me or if he's politely tolerating me. His face seems blank; it doesn't seem like his sleep did much to freshen him. He catches me staring. I avert my eyes, pretending to not have seen anything.

"That," he says, looking at my bandaged calf. He must get the impression that I'm looking for small talk. Great. "Have you gotten Recovery Girl to look at it yet?"

I hold my elbows close to me. "Yes. We have discussed a rehabilitation plan."

"And?"

My gaze falls on my bandages. "It will probably never be normal again. There is too much muscle tissue missing and too much nerve damage." I huff. "At least I'll get a cool scar out of it, as some would say."

I peer to the side to catch his reaction, if there even is one. "Hmm," is all he says. I could be mistaken, but there might have been a tone of pity to that hum.

"What happened?" he asks me.

I lean my back against the sofa. "Some wannabe bigshot set a building on fire. I was escorting people out when something behind me exploded and shrapnel got my left calf." I gaze at the ceiling. "I'm glad I was the only one hurt like this, but between the surgeries and getting accepted for this job, I feel as if I haven't had the time to adjust." As if it knew it was being talked about, my leg tingles. I shift away from my coworker. "You saw the fiasco I was that night. I need new gameplans, better rehab, and if I'm lucky enough, a new Hero costume.

"But for now," I sighed, looking at my brace, "I need to focus on step one, pun not intended. I need to bounce back."

I heard the rustle of nylon. Eraserhead untucked his legs from underneath him. "With the culture of heroics we've been breeding over the past few generations, it's easy to replace an injured Hero. The Heroes know this, but instead of standing up for their aspirations, they take a paid indefinite leave because they can. I have met a few who have gone so far as to elaborately fake their trauma when they finally realize they were never meant for the business." He glanced my way. "You at least still have your drive," he said. "For that, you've earned a little of my respect."

With a heave, he stood. Crawling out with careful steps, he gave me one last look. There is a familiar gleam to his eye, but this one time, the glint is not of malice. "I am eager to see what you will do with that drive." He stashes his sleeping bag behind the couch once more and takes his leave. He pauses in the doorway, and without turning back he says, "And get well soon." He slides the door shut behind him.

I am left alone to think. He is strange, certainly. In the grand scheme of things, who in this building isn't? I sigh as I mull over what I said.

It's true that my life has recently gotten more, hmm, exciting, but deep down I know I've been taking my sweet time getting back on my two feet entirely. I always find an excuse when I should be rethinking battle plans under the guise of "there will be time for that later." I should know better after that night.

That's it. With determination gripping my gut, I swipe a napkin and pen off a nearby table and begin scribbling. In this moment, I feel greedy for more of his respect. I'll earn it properly. At least Present Mic wasn't completely crazy. Maybe Eraserhead and I could even be friends. Eventually. Let's work towards tolerance first.


End file.
